


I Stand Unfettered at Your Feet

by sinestrated



Series: Unfettered [3]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: When news of Quinn's death reaches the Leverage team, Eliot sets out to make things right. He learns a few things in the process.
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer
Series: Unfettered [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572586
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	I Stand Unfettered at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I love playing around in older, smaller fandoms. It's just so much less stress. :)
> 
> This is meant to be the end result of a small series of fics I plan to write involving Eliot, Quinn, and dogs. Eliot struck me as one of the most well-rounded characters on the show; he's not just a muscle guy, he's also a great cook and a fantastic singer. So I decided to give Quinn some of the same depth.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s a gorgeous day for the world to crumble.

For the first time in what feels like forever, they’re on downtime. No jobs, no heists, no dealing with the latest power-hungry narcissist looking for their own twisted version of revenge. Just the Leverage team hanging out in Nate’s apartment above the bar, taking full advantage of the break. Nate and Sophie have retreated with fresh mimosas to the bedroom upstairs. Parker is timing herself cracking some Israeli bio-coded lock at the table by the window. Hardison is geeking around on his phone with one hand while cramming potato chips into his mouth with the other, and Eliot is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for omelets.

It’s a beautiful morning in Portland. Bright cheerful sunlight spills in through the windows, a cloudless blue sky outside for once in the Pacific Northwest’s not inconsiderable life. The brewery is quiet out front, just a couple of patrons whose low conversations create a soft, comforting buzz in the background. All things considered, things are going great.

Then, from his spot on the couch, Hardison straightens up and says, “Huh.”

“What,” Eliot grunts, not looking up from his work.

“That other hitter we brought in for the Latimer job.” Hardison frowns down at his phone. “What was his name, Quinn? He’s dead.”

Eliot’s knife stops moving.

Parker sits up at her table, cocking her head. “Oh. How?”

“There’s actually a video circulating on the Dark Web, looks like some crappy surveillance feed or somethin’,” Hardison says, and shakes his head. “Damn. Take a look at this.” With a flick of his thumb he punts the phone display onto the giant viewscreens plastered across the opposite wall. The video shows some sort of pedestrian bridge at night, gray rushing water visible in the background even with the grainy quality. A group of what looks like random hired muscle forms a sloppy half-circle around a lone man, tall and lean, holding his left arm gingerly to his chest. Even in the dim light, his dirty-blond hair is clear.

There’s no sound, and the video quality is too low to see if he says anything, but in the next instant one of the other men raises his arm, gun in hand, and fires off a single shot, exploding like a miniature firework in the night.

Quinn’s body jerks back with the impact, and he promptly disappears off the bridge. 

“Yikes.” Parker frowns. “That’s not a nice way to go.”

“To his credit, there ain’t no ‘nice way to go’ in that sorta business,” Hardison says. “Glad it was him and not you though, right, Eliot—uh. Eliot?”

“I gotta pick up some ingredients,” he growls, door already swinging shut behind him.

In the sudden silence, Parker and Hardison share a concerned look. “Is it just me,” Hardison says, “or does he look more pissed off than usual?”

#

It can’t be true.

It can’t be.

There aren’t many things that can shake Eliot Spencer. Go through half the shit he’s had to in his life and you sort of just run out of things that surprise you, from blood and guts to human trafficking, mass genocide to dirty bombs. He’s  _ been around _ , as the saying goes, has fought and bled and killed and, on one particularly memorable day, died twice in twenty-four hours.

But he’s never  _ lost _ before.

Lost fights, sure. Lost packages, and payouts, and friends and lovers and his goddamned mind more than once in some crumbling shack in a war-torn country with bombs going off in the distance. But he’s never lost like this, the gaping, sucking wound that just opened in his chest like a black hole the moment Hardison said those words:  _ He’s dead. _

Eliot shudders and leans over the sink. Breathe, goddamnit. Just fucking breathe. But he can’t. All he sees when he closes his eyes are a warm smile and a half-snorted laugh, the smell of vegan bacon in the morning and the comforting security of large hands bracketing his hips. A warmth in his heart he hadn’t felt in so long, thrumming with thoughts of hope and promises of forever. 

And now it’s gone.

“Quinn.” The name bursts from him, choked, small and desperate and swallowed quickly up by the silence of his empty apartment. “Quinn, where the fuck are you?”

THREE DAYS EARLIER

It’s too fucking early for his blanket to leave.

Eliot grabs the arm sliding across his chest and arrests it, curling further into the warm sheets. “S’like, two in the mornin’, man. Where you gotta be?”

The owner of the arm pauses as if in thought. Then the bed shifts, and warm lips brush his shoulder in apology. “Flight’s in two hours,” Quinn whispers.

Eliot grumbles and releases his hold. One thing he’s learned about Quinn: he’s a rule follower. Not necessarily on jobs, where a certain amount of flexibility often means the difference between success and turning up as a beheaded, mutilated body on the evening news. But outside of work, Quinn is almost a laughably good citizen. Never mind it’s ass o’ clock in the morning, never mind traffic’s next to nothing and you could do a hundred on the freeway and get only a sleepy blink from the cops. If TSA says to be at the airport two hours before the flight, you can bet Quinn will be there, all his three-ounce-or-less liquids in a neat fucking bag and everything. 

The fact that Eliot only finds this endearing says something about him, and Quinn, and this odd, inexplicable, awful,  _ wonderful _ thing they’ve been doing for the past year. He tries not to think about it.

He spends the next half hour dozing, only vaguely aware of Quinn’s silent presence as the younger man moves about the room. He does startle a bit when Quinn’s watch scrapes the nightstand—good guy or not, you can’t undo two decades of pure conditioning—but a solid, warm hand on his shoulder eases him back down. He’s halfway back to asleep when he feels the bed dip, followed by the telltale muted crinkle of Quinn’s duffle bag unzipping.

It prompts him to finally turn over, squinting at the broad line of Quinn’s back outlined in the dim light, the way his muscles bunch and shift under his shirt as he packs. It makes something hot and dangerous curl low in Eliot’s stomach, knowing the strength and power contained in Quinn’s body, knowing that, every time Quinn shows up at his doorstep with his bag slung over his shoulder and a lopsided grin, he’s making a choice. Quinn once tried to kill Eliot—got really fucking close too—and now he’s actively choosing something else, choosing to tuck the predator part of himself away so he and Eliot can have this instead.

Eliot swallows, hard. Any half-decent hitter knows if you’re going to survive in this business, you can never let your guard down. The fact that Quinn is doing just that, has done it over and over without hesitation or complaint just so he can carve a space for himself in Eliot’s life...it’s a lot.

And the fact that Eliot returns the favor? A whole other can of worms. Quinn isn’t the only one making himself vulnerable so they can be together; the first few times, Eliot had found himself concentrating so hard on controlling his reflexes he couldn’t even get into the moment. It’d taken a lot of time—and a helluva lot of communication—to get to where they are now.

But holy shit, has it been worth it.

Slow, lazy mornings filled with soft kisses and gentle words. Small yet thoughtful gifts left in safehouses and deposit boxes all over the world. A growing list of vegan recipes in Eliot’s head, ingredients like tempeh and seitan and parmela slowly but surely making their way into his pantry. In the year or so since they started this, Eliot’s life has changed in so many ways—and he can’t imagine letting any of that go. He  _ wants _ Quinn here, in his bed and his heart and his life, possibly forever. 

Rule number one of being a hitter: don’t get attached.

Rule number two: see previous.

But for Quinn, Eliot Spencer is willing to break all the rules.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Quinn rises from the bed and crosses to the closet. As the younger man begins sliding his clothes off the hooks, Eliot sits up and says, low, “You could leave it.”

Quinn pauses, suit jacket hanging loosely from his fingers. “What?”

“The, uh.” Eliot nods at the closet. “Your clothes. You could, you know. Leave a set.”

He doesn’t miss the way Quinn’s shoulders tighten. His own body responds by sending a curl of anxiety squirming through his intestines. They’ve never talked about this before. Every time he leaves, Quinn takes all his possessions with him no matter how small. It’s safer, Eliot knows. He may be out of the game, but Quinn isn’t, not by a long shot. There are people out there who would hurt Quinn if given the chance, would hurt him very badly, and who aren’t above using anything and anyone to get that opportunity.

He knows all this, and yet still he licks his lips and says, “I want you to.”

Quinn half-turns, just enough for Eliot to catch the edge of his frown. “Spencer. You know that’s not how this works.”

The fact he’s using Eliot’s last name isn’t a good sign. Still, that frisson of emotion in Eliot’s gut turns suddenly hot and sour, and the words are out before he can stop them. “We can  _ make _ it work. I want your stuff here, Quinn.”  _ I want you. _

Quinn draws a breath, and for an instant, just an instant, Eliot sees it: the waver. The teetering on an edge, the shaking, desperate desire to say yes. To finally put a name to this thing that’s been brewing between them. To finally change them from a  _ me and you _ to an  _ us _ . 

Then, in the next second, it’s gone. Something shutters in Quinn’s eyes. He turns away and stuffs his remaining clothes into the duffle, no finesse. He’s gonna be so pissed when they turn out wrinkled, Eliot thinks, nonsensically. 

“I’m gonna be late,” Quinn says, not looking at him.

“You got two fuckin’ hours—”

“Goodbye, Eliot.” Then he’s gone, out of the bedroom and down the hall with the front door slamming shut behind him. Which just leaves Eliot, sitting on his bed with its rapidly-cooling sheets, everything inside him twisted up into knots as the apartment falls into utter, accusatory silence.

_ Shit _ , he thinks, blinking stupidly at the half-open closet, one of the hangers still swinging cheerfully from the rod.  _ What have I done? _

__

#

Fucked everything up, that’s what he’s done.

He hunches over the sink, pain lancing through his heart worse than any bullet. He had a good thing going—he had  _ Quinn _ , with all his dry wit and stupid puns and ability to make a killer vegan cheesecake, and he fucked it up. He asked for the one thing Quinn wouldn’t— _ couldn’t _ give him, and now Quinn is dead and Eliot doesn’t even know where the job was, won’t be able to locate his body to bury him, to mourn him, this man who somehow became the center of his whole fucking universe and holy hell how is Eliot supposed to go on, how is he supposed to fight or smile or even fucking  _ breathe _ without—

The strangled sound ripped from his throat is pure, raw pain, and his fist shoots out of its own accord. Fire explodes in his knuckles, accompanied by the sharp tinkle of breaking glass. Looking up, Eliot stares at his reflection in the mirror, broken up into a hundred different angles from the spiderweb cracks.

His hand throbs and he looks down at it. The knuckles are all scratched up, bits of bloody glass still sticking out in some places, but somehow, seeing it, he finds some calm. It’s not enough, just a bit of stillness, of purpose, a reminder that he is still this: a hitter, a fighter, a breaker of things.

He couldn’t protect Quinn.

But fuck if he isn’t going to find those fuckers who killed him, and make them pay.

#

The first call he makes is to the team, telling them he’s skipping town for a bit, helping an old friend get out of a tight situation. Hardison doesn’t sound convinced, Parker even less so, but in the end it’s Nate who nods and tells him to go do what needs to be done. He’s certain the leader of their little team doesn’t know about him and Quinn, but Nathan Ford does know about loss, and Eliot thinks that’s probably enough.

The next call he makes involves two burner phones, four coded numbers, and one thinly veiled threat. When Tang comes on the line, he sounds amused. “Mr. Spencer. I did not think we would cross the paths again.”

Anyone who’s anyone in the criminal underworld knows about Tang Yuanchu. Some only know about him through the grapevine: how he’s got fingers in all the unsavory pies throughout East and Southeast Asia, how he’s not officially Triad but nevertheless all the bosses scramble to serve him tea. Others, like Eliot and Quinn, have had the exquisite pleasure of working for him. It’s not even an understatement: Tang has a reputation for being the straightest damn arrow in a whole world of broken shafts. If he hires you for a contract, he will never turn on you, will never sell you out, will only expect that you complete the job within his timeline and return to collect prompt payment. 

The caveat: try to double-cross him, and it doesn’t matter how good you are or how many connections you have. You’ll disappear within a week, no trace, no signs, your entire history erased from the record, all hints you ever existed wiped from the face of the Earth.

Tang Yuanchu, in Eliot’s opinion, is the closest man in the world to God.

And right now, he’s come to pray.

“Tang- _ laoban _ .” His Mandarin is a little rusty, but damned if he isn’t going to try. He needs every advantage he can get. “With sincerity and greatest respect, I ask for your assistance.”

Tang chuckles, low, and responds in kind. “I assume this is about Quinn- _ xiaobin. _ ”

Eliot draws a sharp breath, entirely involuntary, and Tang sighs. “It’s my business to know everything my associates get up to, past and present,” he says, tone surprisingly gentle. “And I think, in this particular instance, it’s lucky that you reached out to me.”

Lucky? Quinn’s dead, Eliot’s falling apart at the seams, and he’s somehow  _ lucky? _ He takes a deep breath. “As you say, Tang- _ laoban. _ ”

Tang continues as if Eliot hadn’t said anything. “For your high-quality services to me in the past, and because I know how important this is to you,” he says, “I will give you this information for free. Quinn was hired by Chechen smugglers to move a package across borders in Eastern Europe, from Ukraine into Poland. As it turns out, the ‘package’ was a dozen young girls who had been told they would be doing work cleaning rich people’s houses. Of course this was not to be the case, so he refused. And the Chechens shot him.”

Eliot nods, even though he knows Tang can’t see it. His fists clench, shaking, at his sides. He can see it now: the stricken look on Quinn’s face when he opens the door to the shipping container and finds a bunch of scared, dirty faces staring back at him. The set of his jaw as he makes a decision. The defiance in his bright hazel eyes, just before the leader of the goddamned Chechens steps forward and pulls the trigger.

Quinn’s heart always was too big for this business.

In those scant few seconds before he hit the water, did he think of Eliot?

The haze of fury and despair is so thick, it takes a moment for Eliot to realize Tang is still speaking. “...not found,” his former employer says, and Eliot clears his throat, swipes at the sudden tears stinging his eyes.

“I’m embarrassed,” he says. “Could you repeat that?”

He can almost see Tang’s smile. “I said, the most interesting part of the whole thing is that, apparently, after everything was said and done and the Chechens had left town with their cargo, a few...interested parties went to comb the river for Quinn’s body. And it seems they never found it.”

And for the second time that day, Eliot’s world flips.

No body. Everyone knows, in the world of hitters, you don’t get paid unless you present proof of death. They hadn’t found Quinn’s body. Which means Quinn wasn’t in the river. Which means...

“Tang- _ laoban _ .” His throat is suddenly dry; he has to swallow several times to get the words out. “I...I know this isn’t my place to ask, I haven’t earned it, it’s overstepping, but I...if you could...”

Tang laughs then. It’s a low, smoky sound which, coming from the most powerful man in the eastern hemisphere, would terrify most people. But for Eliot, it only sparks the first tiny bit of hope, like a match lit in a universe of darkness.

“Spencer- _ xiaobin _ ,” Tang says then, easy, light. “There are not many people in this world who I think truly deserve to be happy, but you are one of them. Even so, there  _ is  _ my reputation to maintain, so I will make you an offer. I have a job that needs doing in Moscow within the next three months, minimal bloodshed to honor this new code I hear you’re following. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Eliot answers, without hesitation.

A brief pause. Then: “Serhey Yuvchenko, Kiev. My intel says he will be leaving town in two days.”

Eliot swallows. “Th...Thank you, Tang- _ laoban _ . I don’t know how...I just... _ thank you _ .”

Tang hums. “Perhaps, for the job in Moscow, you can bring Quinn along,” he says, and hangs up.

Eliot is already moving before the dial tone comes on, heading for the hall closet where he keeps his go bag. He’ll catch the first flight out of Portland, probably land in Romania or Moldova and use other means of transportation to get into Ukraine.

But first, he has a stop to make.

#

The apartment in Chicago is dark and quiet as death when Eliot unlocks the door, but he knows better than to assume. Just as the low growls start up, he steps forward and barks, “ _ Ajhiuna _ .”

Instantly the growls are swapped for low whines and the click of toenails on hardwood. Eliot flicks on the hallway light, takes in the two furry shapes, and smiles. “Heya, Cricket, Rhea.”

It’s all the permission they need. The two dogs bound forward, tails wagging hard enough to thump against the walls, and Eliot lets them sniff him and lick his face, refamiliarizing themselves with his scent. It’s been a couple months since he last visited. Quinn gets a little twitchy about letting people on his home turf.

He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who know about this place, with its blackout curtains and sparse furnishings. By definition Quinn travels a lot, and any good hitter knows you can’t always count on a permanent base. But this is the closest Quinn’s ever come to having a home; the two giant dogs currently looking up at Eliot with hopeful hunger in their eyes is more than proof of that. He allows himself a smile and goes to thaw a few livers.

As Rhea and Cricket growl and chew behind him, Eliot heads for the bedroom. The luxurious four-poster bed there takes up almost the entire room, sheets turned down in neat military corners, and Eliot shakes his head as he crosses to the closet. Damn Quinn and his weird insistence on ten-thousand-thread-count sheets. Guy might as well be sleeping on clouds; Eliot’s gonna tease the hell out of him later.

Once he finds him. Because Quinn is alive, Eliot knows this like he knows his own heartbeat. If there’s no body, then that means Quinn must’ve woken downstream and dragged himself away, and is now hunkered down somewhere, weak and starving and probably bleeding out. And Eliot will find him. Will find him and punch him first for being so fucking stupid, and then kiss him to make up for it, and he’ll never ask Quinn to leave his stuff again, won’t ever ask him for  _ anything _ ever again, so long as Quinn stays.

There are several suits in different colors hanging in the closet, all neat and well-ironed. No dirty laundry; Quinn always cleans before leaving. Eliot grabs the first shirt he can find, stuffs it into his bag, and heads back out to the living room. Cricket and Rhea lift their heads when he enters, big eyes full of anticipation and curiosity, and he smiles.

“Come on, girls,” he says. “Let’s go get your dad back.”

#

Yuvchenko, as it turns out, is exactly like every other thick-headed Russian mobster Eliot’s ever come across: all smirks and bravado and  _ you-can’t-touch-this _ , up until Eliot’s knee slams into his groin. Then it’s all tears and wails and  _ yes-sir _ and  _ no-sir _ and  _ of-course-I’ll-tell-you-where-that-river-is-sir _ , while Cricket and Rhea pace behind them, blood dripping from their jaws. 

Eliot still shatters the guy’s collarbone and breaks both kneecaps, just on principle.

Nine hours later, he stands on the bank of a rushing white river, staring up at a very familiar bridge. Afternoon is slipping into evening, the sky above slowly edging toward gray, so he doesn’t wait, just takes Quinn’s shirt from his bag, kneels down, and offers it to the dogs. “ _ Vrejhniet _ .”

They’re off immediately, loping up and down the bank of the river, noses to the ground. Eliot follows them, mud sucking at his boots. The dogs lead him three miles downstream, and by the time Rhea’s ears perk up and she veers off into the woods, the sky has melted into complete black, a blanket of stars scattered above.

Eliot follows without hesitation, uncaring of the dirt on his clothes or the aching cold starting to seep into his bones. Quinn’s out there somewhere, injured and alone. Stopping isn’t an option.

The city takes him almost by surprise, appearing out of the treeline like a sleeping giant made of a million twinkling lights. Cricket barks and races Rhea down into the bustle of buzzing streetlights and coughing motor scooters. Eliot jogs to keep up, winding and weaving his way through the crowds as the dogs lead him through several neighborhoods, out past the stores and houses stacked on top of each other like blocks, and into...

The red light district?

His steps slow of their own accord, but Rhea’s urgent barking gets him moving again. She and Cricket are heading for one of the brothels down the street, where two scantily-clad women sashay and beckon from the entrance. They shriek and giggle as the two dogs come up, though, all seductiveness forgotten in favor of cooing and scratching behind willing ears. The older of the two looks up at Eliot’s approach, smiles, and says in thick Russian, “You are a friend, then?”

Eliot blinks, looks down at the way Cricket and Rhea lean against the two women, tongues lolling out, completely at ease. Quinn, it seems, still has a few secrets up his sleeve. “Yes.”

The woman nods and turns to her younger counterpart. “Go and fetch Madam,” she says, before beckoning Eliot with one brightly-painted fingernail. “Come.”

Eliot’s been in quite a few brothels in his lifetime—rarely as a customer, mind you, most often to surprise some poor guy with his pants down to drag him out and beat him in the street—and this one seems to follow the pattern of dim lighting, air thick with cigarette smoke, and a cloying scent of incense. The woman leaves him in the foyer, Cricket and Rhea at his feet, and Eliot is just beginning to wonder if they’ve mistaken him for a customer after all—and whether he’s going to have to intervene in Room 2, where those whines of pain are starting to sound just a little too genuine—when movement from his right catches his attention.

The woman who walks in is older, fifties or sixties, with long black hair up in a severe bun and only a light dusting of makeup. She adjusts her glasses, watches Eliot for a moment, then nods at the beaded curtain blocking off Room 2. “Don’t you worry about them,” she says, in perfect English with a hint of a Ukrainian accent. “She likes it that way.”

Eliot straightens up. “Madam.”

She gives him another once-over. “You must be Eliot Spencer.”

Shit, does the whole fucking criminal underground know about him and Quinn? “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you clean up?”

She’s not referring to his muddy clothes, he realizes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” A quick jerk of her chin toward the back hallway. “Room Six. Keep the door closed.” For the first time, the corner of her mouth quirks. “I would say to take advantage of our services here—Ivinia, at least, has expressed an interest—but I doubt that is what you’re looking for, hm?”

Eliot blushes even as he starts down the hall. “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

Cricket and Rhea are already at the closed door to Room 6, whining and scratching at the thin wood. Taking a deep breath, Eliot turns the knob and pulls it open.

The room beyond is bigger than he expected: about the size of Sophie’s walk-in closet as opposed to Parker’s pantry. The lights here are a little brighter too, the air a little clearer, and the reason for that lies unmoving on the rickety single bed, half on his side so as not to aggravate his heavily-bandaged left shoulder.

Relief hits Eliot like a punch. Cricket and Rhea yelp and rush forward, trying to heave themselves up onto the bed to join their master, but a sharp whistle from Eliot disengages them. As the two dogs pace the length of the room, high-pitched whines conveying their worry, he hurries over to Quinn.

The younger man has never looked worse. Darkening bruises blossom over his face, one eye almost completely black. There’s a pale sheen to his skin and he shivers a little as he sleeps, breaths coming short and fast. A quick inspection of his shoulder, though, reveals that the bandages are clean, no clear signs of infection. The bullet was a through-and-through just beneath his clavicle, missing his lung. The fever is minor, probably something he picked up from the river’s less-than-sanitary water.

Quinn is here, and alive. And fuck if Eliot is going to let him go again.

In the next moment, as if responding to his thoughts, Quinn lets out a shaky breath and slowly opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to focus, but the instant he sees Eliot, everything in him relaxes. “E-Eliot.”

“Hi,” Eliot answers, and kisses him.

It’s less than stellar as far as kisses go; Quinn is clumsy and slow, fingers weak in Eliot’s hair, but Eliot rolls with it, careful of Quinn’s shoulder as he gently presses the younger man to the mattress. Quinn makes a soft noise at that, a sort of half-chuckle half-sigh Eliot’s only heard a few times in his life, associated with quiet mornings and a warm bed and no place else to be, and he feels sudden hot tears sting his eyes. Christ, he almost lost this. If Yuvchenko had been just a bit better with his aim, or the river just a couple degrees colder, or Madam just a bit less hospitable...

“Hey.” Quinn pulls back then, and though he has to be hurting something awful right now, he still manages a small smile as he traces Eliot’s jaw with his thumb. “D-Don’t do that. You’re here now.”

And really, it’s so like Quinn to say something like that. Broke each other’s ribs in an airport hangar? Whatever. Lost his favorite dog because of Eliot’s stupidity? Forgiven. The young hitter named Quinn has turned out to be one of the best men Eliot Spencer has ever known, so can you fault him for looking at Quinn now, all pained smiles and easy forgiveness in his eyes, and wanting nothing but  _ forever? _

Just then, of course, Cricket and Rhea decide they’ve had enough of waiting. Two furry bodies promptly crowd Eliot out of the way, and he sits back and just breathes as Quinn chuckles, low, letting his dogs lick his face and push their noses into his shoulder even though it’s totally unsanitary and must hurt like a bitch. He doesn’t try to intervene, though. He’s fucked things up enough already.

“Hey.” A hand nudges his shoulder. Eliot blinks and looks up to see Quinn watching him from the bed, Cricket and Rhea curled up in a warm furry pile at its foot. There’s something on the younger man’s face, something like a decision made as he says, “Yes.”

Had he asked a question? “Yes what?”

Quinn sighs, but there’s no mistaking the seriousness in his gaze as he says, “Yes, I’ll leave my stuff.”

There’s not much in this world that can surprise Eliot Spencer, and even less that can make him gape open-mouthed like a recently-landed fish. This is one of those times.

The corner of Quinn’s mouth quirks up a bit. “You know when Yuvchenko shot me and I went over that bridge? My life flashed before my eyes. Fucking cliched, really, but it did. And you know what I saw?”

He swallows; Eliot sees his Adam’s apple move. “You,” Quinn says. “All of it was you. You doing that stupid dance while you cook, you giving me that knife for my birthday last year, you playing with my dogs. Your goddamned  _ smile _ , Eliot—just, all of it, you. And I just...I hit that water, and just before everything winked out I just thought to myself how fucking  _ stupid _ I’d been to walk out on you before.”

Eliot stares at him. He can’t breathe. Is Quinn actually...is he offering...?

Quinn sighs then, grimaces a little when his shoulder moves, but the hand that takes Eliot’s is strong and assured, no hesitation, no more fear. “So probably open up some space in your closet. Or, well, maybe more than that. ‘Cause...” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Does your place allow dogs?”

And Eliot can’t help it: he laughs. He laughs and surges forward to kiss Quinn’s smile, and can’t even bring himself to worry about what it means that they’re here, in the back room of a fucking whorehouse in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere in Ukraine, with Quinn barely able to move and Eliot splattered in mud and dirt with two filthy, happy dogs panting at their feet. 

Quinn is  _ asking _ . He’s not just looking to bring his stuff over; he’s looking to bring his  _ life _ , to merge it irrevocably with Eliot’s so that they can finally become one instead of two. He’s breaking all the rules, doing everything a good hitter was taught  _ not _ to do, and Eliot knows exactly why.

Quinn is getting out. He’s finally found something in his life that’s worth more than blood and violence and adrenaline and huge sums of cash, something worth trading all that in for, something worth looking forward to more than the next hit, the next contract, the next job.

And that something is Eliot Spencer.

Eliot doesn’t know if he deserves this. He doesn’t know if it makes up for all the pain he’s experienced, all the exhausting jobs he’s run with Leverage, all the times he’s tried so fucking hard to redeem himself for the terrible things he’s done. But neither does he care. Quinn is going to be here, Quinn with his dogs and his rule-following and his weird love for New Age music, and that’s enough. For Eliot, Quinn is and always will be enough.

“Hope you ain’t allergic to rain,” he mumbles, and feels more than sees Quinn’s smile.

“I’ll manage,” his partner answers.

And the cool thing is? He totally does.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


End file.
